Tomorrow is a Stranger
by Estoma
Summary: "One day, she'll take to the salt-sea again, but for now, the sound of lapping water sends her back over the abyss." Annie's past, present and future in drabble form. For Johanna on her birthday.


**Author's note: Eleven 100 word drabbles for Johanna's birthday. Using prompts from Caesar's Palace Forum.**

_1. Demagogue_

One day, the hinges will shatter and shrapnel will scatter while gun-smoke mingles with the scent of new-baked bread in the kitchen. With eyes like a hunted deer, her mother will try to shelter her children in the harbour of her arms, but the storm will rock them at anchor and test even the staunch breakwater. In soiled white uniforms, dirtier than even the gulls that feed off entrails down by _Old Pier, _the peacekeepers will invade her home and take her father. But for now, she perches on his knee and listens to his view of a better Panem.

_2. Architecture_

One day, in the hot and heady summer, when banners hang limp about Damash Square, and peacekeepers remove their helmets for fear of fainting, the Justice Building will gleam white. Columns and balconies will soar above the heads of the children and their parents, and even the victors; a reminder of the tremendous power that threatens, like the crests of the great rollers that spring up from a southerly, to crush them all in a rush of blood and sea-foam. One day, she'll stand on the stage by the marble steps, but for now, she chases wavelets on the shore.

_3. Silk_

One day, the Reaping will come. It will not be her name drawn; a slim reed of a girl, all of sixteen, will climb the stage. One day, in the uniform of the _Dock_ _Academy, _she'll speak two words and save a life. She won't know if, like Castor and Pollux of the old tales, she's only exchanging one beating heart for another, but as she cocoons herself in the silken sheets on her bed on the train, she'll tally the memory against the kills to come. But for now, she plays 'tributes and careers'; a stick is her laughing-dagger.

_4. Pink_

One day, it will be her blade, fuelled by a surge of adrenaline more devastating than king tides, and honed by six years of skills that should never be taught to children, that makes the first kill of the games. She'll cleave the pink skin of the tribute foolhardy enough to run for the cornucopia, and reveal what's underneath. One day, she'll learn people are little more than pieces of meat, leant animation for a while. But for now, she traces her finger over the ridged, pink lip of a Scotch Bonnet and wonders about the creature that vacated it.

_5. Querulous_

One day, he'll be her undoing. As she walks a tightrope track between trees taller than thought, he'll be there and he'll be hungry, thirsty, tired, and won't hesitate to tell her. Voice high and piercing, he'll whine until her nerves fray like old rope and she gives him a shove. She'll learn about traps, one day, as her district partner trips a wire, a lethal-thin garrotte that stops his prattle and severs flesh and bone so rapidly, his face still bears comic surprise. But for now, they're just training and the games are as far away as the stars.

_6. Hidden_

One day, when her reality has been warped until it sways like thick, dark kelp, she'll seek refuge among the tumbled rocks and crags. The cove, screened to the north by high cliffs, and to the south by a clattering scree slope, will become her haven, hidden from the other careers who hunt her. Like a wolf pack scenting an outcast, they'll bay for the blood of their former ally, but when they come, she'll be hidden where they dare not follow; submerged and safe. But for now, she liked to play 'hide and seek', clamouring to be the seeker.

_7. Technology_

One day, a crack will appear unnoticed, as sly and malignant as a tumour. It'll spread through veins and arteries of stonework as, unaware, the tributes make plans and furnish hopes of home that will never come to pass. There will be no warning; no forty-day rain, just the most spectacular failure of technology in nearly seventy years (during the third games, the landmines weren't turned off) as the dam shatters, releasing the old Yukon River. One day, she'll battle the primal force of the water for hours, but for now she likes the way the waves cradle her gently.

_8. Gold_

One day, with weeping sores lining his mouth like oysters on the black volcanic rock of the eastern coves, he will settle a crown of gold laurel on her brow. Nestled upon her hair it will drag her head down until she stares at her feet, and not into the eyes of the nation. Rather than a symbol of her survival against odds only the foolhardy would bet their lives upon, it will be a gilt manacle. One day, she'll hurl her gold crown off the cliffs by the _Gorgon's Plinth_ but for now, she collects gold-quartz on the shoreline.

_9. Asylum_

One day, the rising sun will not carry the taint of blood and its spearing rays will bring only light and warmth. Its glow will illuminate the golden coast, not the roiling devil's cauldron. The whispering voices will be struck dumb and their accusations will fade with the scouring waves. Her hands will forget the way the last tribute clung so tightly to his raft of branches that she pried his fingers off, snapping them one by one. One day, she'll take to the salt-sea again, but for now, the sound of lapping water sends her back over the abyss.

_10. Brown_

One day, amid the smoking rubble and tentative first steps of a new Panem, her child will take his own first, stumbling strides, soft sand to break his fall. Her arms will provide a sheltered harbour for her little son when a storm of scuttling soldier crabs interrupt his first attempts to run, just as _his_ arms were once a haven for her. She'll wish her son's hair was not her own dull brown, but bright bronze, even as she holds him close. But for now, she seeks only comfort from her fellow victor and lets his kisses go astray.

_11. Green_

One day, the sun will skin over the horizon without touching the waves. The tides will dictate the moon to ebb and flow while gulls take wing by its light to snatch silvery fish from the air. Lighthouses will shroud their glow, their keepers cackling like harpies as sailor and ship, flesh and wood, plough into dark headlands. One day, she'll lift the veil from her green eyes and see smiling faces where she now sees fangs. One day, she'll know herself, and _him_, and not just when the wind is in the south. But for now, it blows north.


End file.
